“The devil fly away with him!” mused Chichikov. “However, I will add another half-rouble.” And he did so.
“Indeed?” said Sobakevitch. “Well, my last word upon it is—fifty roubles in assignats. That will mean a sheer loss to me, for nowhere else in the world could you buy better souls than mine.”
“The old skinflint!” muttered Chichikov. Then he added aloud, with irritation in his tone: “See here. This is a serious matter. Any one but you would be thankful to get rid of the souls. Only a fool would stick to them, and continue to pay the tax.”
“Yes, but remember (and I say it wholly in a friendly way) that transactions of this kind are not generally allowed, and that any one would say that a man who engages in them must have some rather doubtful advantage in view.”
“Have it your own away,” said Chichikov, with assumed indifference. “As a matter of fact, I am not purchasing for profit, as you suppose, but to humour a certain whim of mine. Two and a half roubles is the most that I can offer.”
“Bless your heart!” retorted the host. “At least give me thirty roubles in assignats, and take the lot.”
“No, for I see that you are unwilling to sell. I must say good-day to you.”
“Hold on, hold on!” exclaimed Sobakevitch, retaining his guest’s hand, and at the same moment treading heavily upon his toes—so heavily, indeed, that Chichikov gasped and danced with the pain.
“I BEG your pardon!” said Sobakevitch hastily. “Evidently I have hurt you. Pray sit down again.”
“No,” retorted Chichikov. “I am merely wasting my time, and must be off.”